


Master

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, D/s, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, GFY, M/M, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't take much to draw him in, lure him to the planet, to the comfortable home I've built myself among these lesser beings the Doctor so adores.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master

**Author's Note:**

> This is a regeneration past canon for the Master - one I've RPed, PB Anthony Head. As for the rest... I'm just going to blame the Master-muse being a sadistic bastard who's difficult to resist and leave it at that.

It doesn't take much to draw him in, lure him to the planet, to the comfortable home I've built myself among these lesser beings the Doctor so adores. He's not the regeneration I know he acquired recently, the one that's so uncaring about what I do, so long as I leave him be. He's strange and less stable than I think he ought to be, the one most recent, but right now, he's not the one here.

Not the one kneeling on my bed, lean body stretched out with hands bound to the beam over his head. Blindfolded and naked and waiting. But aware - I can feel his mind, locked away behind the walls he's built, but still watching, seeking some small contact where it can. Seeking a mind like his own, more than the fleeting minds of those around us.

This isn't the regeneration I remember first running into after the Time War either, with his shock of annoyingly wild hair and his suits and his pleas for me to regenerate and stay with him. No, this one arrived in leather and boots, with ears that no one could miss, and his hair all cropped as close as a soldier's. It's what he was, after all. A soldier fighting to protect Gallifrey and the universe, and in the end sacrificing the former for the latter.

"Master."

He speaks, and I narrow my eyes, tightening my own mental shields just a bit. It's disconcerting that he's already aware of who I am, but that's not too important in the grand scheme of things. He would have figured it out sooner or later.

Still, I think he's a bit too aware for my tastes at the moment, physically at least. The rest, not yet aware enough.

My feet make little sound on the thick rugs covering the wooden floor as I cross to a table near the bed, with a variety of items spread across the surface. Centered on it is a box that I'm quite fond of, holding in its carefully padded interior a compendium of chemicals that are at their most potent when used on a telepath, by a telepath.

It's cheating in a way, of that I'm aware, but with the walls this regeneration of the Doctor has built, a little cheating is a judicious choice to make. I certainly have no desire to go about wasting energy pulling down those walls in order to block what I need to block. Particularly considering my plans are a bit more than simple rearranging of his senses, albeit temporarily.

"I don't remember you being into recreational drugs."

The hinges on the box squeak ever so slightly when its opened, so I am not particularly surprised that the Doctor noticed. It's annoying, though, that he's aware of the contents, and that means those idiots I assigned to bring him here and leave him as he is for me were less than efficient in going about the task. A pity, that. Replacing servants can be such a hassle.

I pluck a bottle from the box along with a dropper. The best attribute of these drugs is their ease of application - liquids that absorb through the skin, powders fine enough to be inhaled deep into the lungs. Simple enough to use with anyone, even a less-than-willing victim.

"It's not recreational."

The Doctor turns his head towards me when I speak, his brow furrowing as he tries - and no doubt fails - to identify my current regeneration by voice. It's rather amusing to see how he struggles to get away for a moment when he realizes I must be a regeneration beyond the Time War, one he has yet to meet. It's useless, of course, and he knows it, settling back into the position he was after a moment, a deep sigh escaping him.

I'm not actually certain if it's resignation, relief, or disappointment I hear in that sound, or something of all three.

Filling the dropper, I leave it on the table as I strip off one glove, willing to give him a chance to surrender without the use of the drugs. He tilts his face into my palm a moment when I cup his cheek, my hand sliding back until my thumb brushes his temple. Threat and that invitation both rolled into one. Waiting to see what he will do, which way he decides.

He hesitates, expression unreadable with his eyes hidden as they are behind the thick black fabric. There's still a sense of distance to him, of retreat behind walls that is all instinct instead of intent, and his voice is quiet as he gives me a verbal response to the unspoken question.

"I can't."

Two words, and not quite what I expected. How can he be unable to do what I asked, rather than simply refusing? It's not anything like the Doctor I know, in any regeneration.

He tilts his head back, as if trying to look at me through the blindfold, his features softening a bit. As if he's reached a decision, and he has no regrets, no second thoughts about what he's about to do. A decision I'm sure he wouldn't make if this were before the Time War, or if he were either of the regenerations I've met or been aware of since.

"Use it."

That is more unsettling even than the earlier response, and I'm almost tempted not to use the drugs as I'd planned. My thumb presses harder against his temple as I rein in the urge to simply burn through his defenses, like he burned Gallifrey. Show him what he - what all of them - have made of me.

Liquid beads create a momentary diadem across his brow before I return the dropper and bottle to the box, watching them run gleaming tracks across his skin, his face tilting forward again to let them catch on the blindfold. Reducing the dose he receives, but not enough to prevent what I plan to do.

Stripping off my other glove, I return to the bed, bringing my fingers to his temples. Pushing against the crumbling walls until they fall, giving me access to his mind with less of a fight than I'd expected, even with the drugs. It's short work to block hearing and sight, taste and smell.

I leave his sense of touch, because it appeals to have him able to feel when he can do little else. It takes a bit more to block off his sense of time, of the movement of the universe around him, but I have that time. It is, after all, where I want him, cut off from everything around him except through me, for the time being.

The slight increase in his respiration, the faint dampness of sweat under my fingertips is all I need to know that I've succeeded in what I desire. That he's uncertain of the passage of time, or the changes in the world around him. I reach back to untie the blindfold, I want to see his eyes, even though he can't see me.

His eyes are blue in this regeneration, wide and pale, searching about for vision that won't come. I pull away, leaving only the lightest of mental contact for him to cling to, just enough for him to hear thoughts I direct at him. He sways as I slip off the bed, catching himself on the chains that keep his arms stretched over his head.

Chains that are unnecessary now, with the drugs coursing through his system. I retrieve the key form the table, shedding my shoes before I step up onto the bed to unfasten the cuffs. The soft groan of relief from the Doctor is quite satisfying, and I smile, letting him feel my appreciation of the sound down the link as I toss hte key back to the table.

_On your back, Doctor. Arms wide, open for me._

I step off the bed once more to give him room obey. It's a long moment before he does, and after, I reach out to brush the backs of my fingers against his face in reward. I can sense the desperate need just below the surface for this contact more strongly when I do, the desire to have me near, to have someone near who can understand.

Even knowing how much he begged - will beg - me to regenerate, to stay with him, this level of sheer need is unsettling and unlike the Doctor. So proud a man, the one I knew, before and after, and here he's humbled. Broken by what he has done, and by his own survival of that cataclysm. His mind all but screaming out the guilt and regret that weighs on his shoulders.

There's so much I could do with that, use it to twist the Doctor to my own ends, and yet... I am reluctant to take advantage of his vulnerability, never mind the risks I'd take with my own time-line. I'm not even certain what it would do, how badly it would rip the universe, and unlike Jack, I'm perfectly capable of causing a paradox.

I shed the jacket of my suit, leaving it hung across the back of a chair as I roll up my sleeves, studying the Doctor's prone form. In my mind, I can see it covered with a trace-work of bloody lines, or covered in welts and burns. Or any manner of other painful markings.

It is perhaps a measure of my reluctance to harm him that I chose none of them, strengthening the link between myself and the Doctor again with a brush of fingertips against his temple. I don't need the tools laid out on the table, not with the Doctor. They are for use on lesser creatures than us.

Starting at the sole of his foot, I slowly drag a fingertip up his leg, tracing a line from ankle to hip, spiraling from inside to outside. Twisting the sensation from his nerves from the edge of a nail to a knife-tip, making him flinch and try to twist away. I clamped my other hand around his ankle to keep him from moving.

_Now, now, Doctor, you don't want to damage anything, do you?_

His hiss of indrawn breath was all the answer that was needed, and I let go of his ankle after a moment, waiting until he starts to turn his head, looking for me with those blind blue eyes before I settle onto the edge of the bed. I leave barely-there white lines as I trace a nail lightly over the lean torso, long limbs left flung out for me to manipulate, all the while worming knife-edge sensations of pain into his mind.

_How much do you want this, Doctor? How much do you want me?_

I pause in my explorations as I ask the question, reaching up a hand to stroke it over the sweat-soaked hair, what little there is of it. Curious what his answer will be, about why he's letting me do this, with no complaint that's made it far enough for me to notice. Only that moment where he admitted an inability to do as asked, and offered himself up as a willing victim for what he called a recreational drug.

He doesn't say anything, only returns a tide of raw need and surging guilt, his body arching under the hand I'm resting on his chest. Hearts-beat rapid and strong, breathing ragged, nerves singing with desire and pain-pleasure. This need, this utter craving, this desperation, all clawing at my mind, begging me to do what I will with him. To hurt him, to make him atone.

And that, that is what I will never consent to be. Merely his whip, his flagellation. No. Never that.

_If all you want is the pain, I have the antidote handy. You can find someone else, maybe some pathetic human. They're good enough for that._

_No._

There is desperation in that single word, but that isn't enough, not anymore. Once, it might have been. A lifetime ago, when the Time War hadn't happened, when we were young, and I was still uncorrupted enough by my own power to listen. It isn't enough anymore simply for him to be desperate.

_Please, Master._

I pause in my withdrawal, contemplating his furrowed brow, the naked plea in his expression for a long moment.

_How much do you want me, my dear Doctor?_

How far is he willing to go, how much is he willing to sacrifice in order to have me? To allow me to have him? I can feel the struggle in him, as he tries to articulate an answer. And in the end, doesn't use words.

It's been centuries since he's been this open, since he's tried to lay himself this bare to me, struggling to take down the barriers even the drugs can't tear apart. To give me access to everything. Leaving himself with no secrets, nothing that can be his and his alone.

The rush of power is thrilling, intoxicating.

I slide into his mind, ignoring the memories laid bare. I'll have time enough to go through them at my leisure later. It's the core of who he is, that sense of the storm, of barely-contained chaos, that I go for. Wrap it in steel and darkness, all of what I am. Silk threads to wrap around my all-too-willing prey.

The connection is easier to hold now, as I step away long enough to strip off the rest of my clothing, sliding back into the bed as he rolls over, the sense that he's offering up a fresh canvas for whatever I care to do coming across the link clearly. One that I am all too happy to mar with scratches and bites that I don't bother to transform into something more painful. There's no need, with his surrender.

Care, though, is still needed, fingers slicked before I slide them in. One, then a second, my mind blanketing any sign of resistance, smothering it before it can cause him pain. Curling and coiling around his, slick slide and painful grip. He's clinging right back, catching my pleasure in his pain and his surrender and echoing it back, threads laced through and around it of sensation and emotion. Letting me feel what he's feeling, an enhancement of the experience that was lacking with the lesser species.

My own arousal is building, and I don't bother to wait, though I've found this regeneration is quite capable of enjoying delayed gratification. He's familiar around me, not the furnace-heat of human flesh, and I reach out to lace my fingers through his in a moment of pleasure-fueled intimacy. Hold his hands to the mattress as I thrust, mind coiling tighter around his.

Making him mine once more, binding him to me tighter than he ever allowed when we were young and actually in love. An emotion I know he has no delusions I feel now, and doesn't pretend that he doesn't. I don't pretend to understand how he thinks this could work, in the long run, and I know it won't. But as I worm deeper into his mind, weave myself ever more intricately with him, the reverberating echoes of pleasure and pain, desire and need, I don't find I care.

I come first, as he's still taut with desire beneath me. There's no other way it can be, no other way I will allow it to be. I slip free of his body, pulling him with me as I roll over, shifting until I am holding him in my lap, sitting against the pillows at the head of the bed. Nipping at his shoulders, mind curling tight around his, a stranglehold.

_Come for me, Doctor. Tell me who you belong to, tell the world, the universe, who you belong to._

My hands are holding him against me, are keeping him where I want him, and he lets his head fall back, muscles trembling as he lets himself go. His voice is horse, as if he's been screaming himself raw, though he hasn't made a single sound since offering himself up as sacrifice. One word on his lips, his orgasm intense, pleasure-pain where there is no telling where one ends and the other begins.

"Master."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 5 December 2008 in rounds_of_kink on LiveJournal.


End file.
